Opus
by AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha
Summary: Lestrade/Sherlock, age-difference AU. What does twenty-something Sherlock Holmes have in common with forty-something Greg Lestrade? As it turns out, they both have similar ideas on how to unwind. Full summary and warnings inside. Rated M for MATURE. I am so not kidding about that.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Opus**

**Beta:** parfait_cell (at Livejournal)

**Rating: **Adult – Explicit!

**PLEASE READ:**

The story you are about to read depicts **graphic** **sexual content, violence, blatant homophobia** and **references to drug use**. If any of the above mentioned content bothers you, please do not read any further.

Furthermore, while I can't stop you from reading if you are underage (though I much rather you didn't), please, for the love of God, don't tell me about it.

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**(Real) Summary: **Twenty-something Sherlock Holmes gets off on sucking cock anonymously in public toilets. Recently divorced, forty-something Greg Lestrade gets off on… well, he gets off.

AU, age!kink. Like many of my stories, it is a response to a prompt at the kinkmeme. Please see my Livejournal (username "am_hatescaptcha") for more details.

ENJOY!

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Chapter One:

Sherlock stepped into the public lavatory and made his way toward the far end cubicle. On his way, he glanced under the partitions. He saw no sign of feet or heard any noise to indicate that he wasn't alone. It wouldn't stay this way for long, not at this time of the night. He drew out a light blue handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly tied it to the door handle, signalling to anyone who might approach: oral sex, giving.

Stepping inside, he had nothing to do but wait.

Impatiently, he studied the graffiti that littered the stall door. No one had come to this particular lavatory for its intended use in years. And if anyone _did_accidentally walk in, Sherlock was sure that either the the hole at crotch level, the occasional moaning, or the extremely homoerotic messages on the walls would clue them to the lavatory's real purpose.

He grinned to himself, studying the lewd messages, and made a game of deducing their artists: a left-handed medical student here, high at the time, and here was a right-handed waiter just off from his shift. This one had scribbled his message during the act itself, how interesting…

The sound of the lavatory door opening drew his attention away from the scribbling and back to reality. He cocked his head to the side, listening to the approaching footsteps. Recognition snapped into place and he smiled in satisfaction. It would be the policeman tonight, then. He was right on schedule.

Sherlock dropped down to his knees before the glory-hole, waiting impatiently for the action to start. There wasn't much room for courtesy in that place, but neither of them were there to make acquaintances anyway.

He listened for the rustle of clothing, the tell-tale sound of a zip being pulled down and the contented sigh of the policeman as he took himself in hand. Sherlock watched through the glory-hole in fascination as the man stroked himself to hardness in a few practised moves, then quickly tore open a condom wrapper and slid it down over his erection. He slipped his cock through the hole and into Sherlock's waiting mouth.

Sherlock loved this, he truly did. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest of habits, but, unfortunately, he wasn't one to get off easy on his own. He didn't know how other people managed it. Sherlock loved the feeling of a hard cock in his mouth, making another man desperate for release with just his lips and his tongue. He even loved how slightly depraved it all was: here he was, a boy from a good home, on his knees in a filthy public rest-room, sucking off a stranger he couldn't even see. It was so easy like this, losing himself to the moment, to the sensations, to the risk.

It was better than the alternative. Relationships, even those of the purely physical kind always got too complicated in the end. No, he preferred to remain anonymous. He elected to never reveal himself to any of the men he engaged with, or even to speak out loud, lest they recognise his voice somehow.

Although, to be frank, his mouth was usually too occupied to speak.

"Oh, it's you," the man on the other side of the cubicle wall said when Sherlock wrapped his mouth around his swollen glans. "I knew it."

Sherlock liked his voice. It was pleasant and smooth, even when it was brought down an octave with arousal. Sherlock himself never spoke out loud, but he liked it when the other men did. Especially this one. Sherlock was pleased to discover that the man had recognised him simply by the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on his prick, and so fast too.

Sherlock felt the stretch around his mouth, even just to accommodate the head. Another reason why he was so fond of the policeman: he was hung like a feature in a filthy magazine, _after_it had been Photoshopped.

Sherlock sucked hard once more, and then pulled back. He continued to jerk the man off, his hand sliding easily on the slight lubrication of the condom. Cherry-flavoured this time, he noted. Why, he really did care.

He began to suck along the shaft, his tongue darting out to press hard on a prominent vein, teasing the man on the other side until he groaned and flattened his body fully against the partition, bringing his magnificent cock entirely into Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock smirked, and gave a final hard suck to the shaft before wrapping his lips around his teeth and opening wide, taking the stranger as far as he could. His palm worked the areas he couldn't reach, and he built a rhythm with his hand and mouth, bobbing his head back and forth. He squeezed at the base, drawing gasps from the stranger.

Sherlock untucked himself from his own trousers with a sigh, taking himself in hand. He didn't have to. If he wanted, he could have come just from sucking the stranger off. That feeling for him was nigh-orgasmic, especially when the man gasped out the way he did, or when Sherlock _felt_the cock pulse in his mouth.

Sucking in earnest, he listened greedily to the little sounds the stranger made. The cock was wet with his saliva, making it easier to take further into his mouth.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the man blasphemed deliciously, and Sherlock smiled around him. He began to hum a familiar tune, delighted by the man's amused snort. It was something of a game between the two of them; could he last until Sherlock finished the melody?

He always failed, of course; Sherlock was just that good. The man always did try his best, though.

The vibrations sent the stranger straight over the edge. He came hard, thrusting his hips in time with Sherlock's movements. Sherlock gave one final, hard suck on the spent cock before pulling back. He licked his lips as he stood, disappointed that he couldn't taste the man's come.

He stopped wanking just to slip on a condom, and watched as the man withdrew his cock from the glory-hole. Sherlock slipped his own dick through it, bracing his hands on the wall when he was almost immediately engulfed in a tight heat. His mouth opened in a silent cry. He was already so close, and it didn't take long for him to finish.

"Thanks," the man said afterwards, without any unnecessary pleasantries. Sherlock heard the door to the cubicle open and close, and listened to the man's retreating footsteps. He waited several minutes before stepping out of his own cubicle.

His body hummed in satisfaction. He winced at the remaining taste of cherry-flavoured latex, and popped a stick of gum into his mouth before striding out of the vacant lavatory.

Greg looked around to make sure he was alone before pushing open the lavatory door.

It was irresponsible, perhaps, for a man in his position. God knows what he'd do if word got out about his habit of finding anonymous gay sex in public toilets, not to mention what internal affairs would have to say.

But, damn it, he thought, his business was his business, and he shouldn't have to answer to anyone about what he did in his own spare time.

It was easier this way. After the divorce, he'd tried dating a few times, both men and women, but a man his age had to be seen as a little desperate for companionship. He didn't like that thought at all. He went on a few second dates, but decided eventually not to pursue anything further. It felt too forced for his tastes. He did not have the energy for another failed relationship.

Greg stepped into the lavatory. No one was there, except… He smiled when he saw the familiar pale blue handkerchief, and in the middle cubicle this time, no less. Obviously _someone_was feeling adventurous.

He settled on the cubicle to the right, quickly preparing himself for what would no doubt be another mind-blowing encounter. This, this was the real reason he kept returning to this place. No one could suck cock like Mr. John Doe. He stuffed his fist in his mouth to hold off a gasp when he was pulled into the eager cavity, the immediate, hard suction almost causing his knees to buckle. Adventurous and _impatient_.

"You're awfully spirited tonight," he teased. "Waiting for anybody else?" The owner of the frankly fantastic mouth didn't stop to reply, but then again, Greg didn't expect him to, he never did.

God, he was an artist. Greg had been coming regularly for weeks now, as often as he could, in fact. He made sure to come at the same time, and on most nights, the mouth and fist on the other side of the wall would belong to the mysterious regular. They were almost going steady, he thought.

The man obviously didn't want anything other than a quick blow-job, though. He never answered any of Greg's questions, and he never came out of his own stall while Greg was still in the lavatory. Greg never stuck around to wait for the man to come out, either. He respected the man's need to remain anonymous, and the boundaries he had set for their encounters.

But Greg was curious. All he'd ever seen of the stranger was his lovely cock and his feet under the stall door. Big feet, elegant shoes, but that told him practically nothing. What did he even look like?

Greg had a variety of fantasies in place for his man of mystery, in the absence of anything else to go on, although the shoes always took precedent in his imagination. He realised of course that the likelihood of the man resembling anything like the sex god he imagined was close to zero. The man could be homely enough to stop a clock, as far as Greg knew. Someone who sucked cock like that must have had lots of practice, but he preferred to stay behind a closed door.

Of course, he could have simply been married, or paranoid about being discovered performing oral sex in a public toilet. Or he could be a celebrity, worried about getting caught with his pants down—literally. Oooh, _that_could be interesting, Greg thought, and added a new fantasy face to his list. He did have a thing for Richard Armitage at the moment.

He rested his forearm on the stall wall for balance while the man on the other side moaned around his cock. Whoever he was, he obviously enjoyed the act as much as Greg did, if not more. Maybe more. He always seemed to prefer to start on his knees.

Then he began to hum a little, and Greg grinned. He recognised the tune, but for the life of him, he couldn't fit a name to the melody. He knew it was classical music, but other than that, he came back blank.

If you'd have asked him to place any Stones tune, he wouldn't have needed a second to guess. He was crap with the classicals, though. He'd recognise Beethoven's 5th or Für Elise, but other than that…Who thought about classical music during a blow job, anyway? He found that he liked the man behind the partition even more for it.

"Think I'm going to win this time, you'll see," he said through his gasps.

The stranger sucked harder in response, never stopping his humming, as if to say, _no, you're really not._

And damn it, but he was right.

"Next time…I swear," Greg gasped out as he came into the eager mouth. He felt the answering chuckle rather than heard it.

What _was_ the name of the bloody song, though? It was going to drive Greg mad, he just knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Sherlock's sigh came out in a puff of fog. He pulled the zip of his coat closer to his neck before shoving his gloved hands back into his pockets. He thought he should probably buy a decent coat sometime soon, funds willing. The current one was beginning to fray at the seams.

He hadn't planned on going to the public lavatory at all that day, and certainly not so late at night. Lately, he'd been sticking to a regular hour, in hopes of coinciding with the policeman's schedule. Why settle for less, after all?

It wasn't that long since he'd walked out of his tiny flat. Sherlock had spent most of his day indoors, exhausted and frustrated. He hadn't slept in over 72 hours, and sleep still eluded him. It was often the case after he'd spent days without thought-exercise to keep him occupied, to keep him _focused_. His boredom would simply get the better of him and he would end up in a right state. His mind kept rattling away in his head, as if trying to escape its flesh and bone cage.

At this point, there was very little Sherlock could do to will his mind into silence. He was too mentally agitated to sleep, yet too physically exhausted to really think. His body and mind rebelled against one another, frustratingly out-of-sync.

This was nothing out of the ordinary for Sherlock. Over the years, he had found ways to deal with the problem, in case mental stimulation wasn't readily available.

The easiest (and most tempting) option wasn't feasible at the moment. It involved substances that Sherlock was currently abstaining from (as he'd been, perhaps, a bit too indulgent lately.)

The second option usually worked just as well, and was the reason Sherlock had left his flat in such a hurry. It was probably best said straight-out: _Sherlock needed to come._ The release of sexual tension always brought on a certain degree of physical and mental tranquility for him, even hours after the initial refractory period.

The_ logical _course of action would have been to just give himself a hand. Unfortunately, that was something he had always found difficult. Sherlock was _stupidly bad_ at wanking; the act was simply not _distracting _enough, not in solitude, at any rate.

He did try, though, never one to back off from a challenge. Sherlock had lain in bed, closed his eyes, and wrapped a well-lubed hand around his cock.

Well, that had been all right at first. He'd attempted to keep his mind blank, focusing on the sensation around his hardening flesh. It worked…for about thirty seconds. Then, he tried to conjure up a few fantasies; past lovers came to mind, even the policeman with his well-endowed cock, but the memories paled in comparison to the real thing. Without meaning to, Sherlock started to wonder if there was a correlation between crime-fighting and one's… measurements. Which, granted, was very interesting, but not quite helpful in solving Sherlock's predicament.

After that, his mind became a battlefield of activity. He went completely off-topic; he started to ponder chemistry equations and envisioned that composition he had been intending to write. He'd also remembered the mould he'd discovered in his fridge that morning, and wondered what use he could make of it. One thought followed another, and it became increasingly difficult to chase them away.

He tried opening his eyes, attempting to clear his mind by staring blankly ahead. He had started to focus on the stain on the wall and the sound of passing cars outside his window. Frustrated, and already softening, he gave up.

He wondered how other people managed it at all (and so _often._) He was hardly ever able to bring himself to orgasm alone. He craved it, knowing that the release would ease his mind and body alike, but Sherlock simply needed an extra rush to keep his mind focused, really focused, on the act and in the moment. He needed something to keep him grounded.

In conclusion, he needed _someone_. Otherwise, he'd have no choice but to start contemplating another type of distraction. And so, Sherlock made his way to the only place he knew of where he could get off without complications.

The public lavatory was still a short distance away. The park was poorly lit, which was usually all right by him. He passed a group of young men gathered beneath a flickering lamp-post. They stood idle despite the chill of the night. Most of then were around Sherlock's age, if not a little bit younger.

"Got a fag?" one of them called out to him as he passed… while holding on to a cigarette, Sherlock noticed. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, and kept on walking.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, Princess," the youth sneered, jogging after Sherlock.

The young man circled around to face him, forcing Sherlock to stop in his tracks. He took a last, long drag from his cigarette before tossing it at Sherlock's feet, smirking as he did so.

Sherlock could hear the rowdy laughter coming closer, as the group of boys strolled to catch up with them.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak _dunce_," Sherlock replied, unable to stop himself. "Shall I fetch a translator?"

Loud sniggering came from behind them. The boys broke out into cat-calls and howls. The whiff of cheap alcohol and energy drinks carried in the wind, assaulting Sherlock's nose.

"You gon' let him talk to you like that, Randall?" one of the boys yelled, elbowing one of his companions rudely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and started to walk past Randall, as he was apparently called.

The young man angrily blocked his way, shoving Sherlock back by the shoulders. Sherlock stumbled against one of the other boys from the force of the push. Sherlock straightened, carefully keeping his face blank. He didn't take his hands out of his pockets. He regarded the young man curiously, recognition beginning to bloom in his mind.

"What's the matter, eh?" Randall snarled. "In a hurry to get your arse pumped?" The boys howled with laughter at that, catcalling owlishly.

"Don't think we don't know what's down there," Randall continued, grinning and nodding in the public lavatory's direction.

"Well, _of course_ you'd know," Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "You're a frequent visitor."

"What'd you say, Nancy Boy?" Randall growled.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement. He leaned closer to Randall and ducked his head toward the young man's neck, sniffing audibly. Yes, it was exactly as he thought.

Randall jumped back, startled by Sherlock's actions.

One of the young men huffed in laughter. "I think he's coming on to you, Rand!"

Sherlock turned to the speaker with a frown. "Do you really think he's such a catch? No, no." He turned back to Randall. "Even if I was tempted, which I'm not, experience taught me not to bother." He looked Randall up and down, and again his mouth ran away with him.

"Don't recognise me?" Sherlock asked. He looked down pointedly, eyebrows raised suggestively. "I'm afraid I do recognise you."

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Fifteen centimetres in length, roughly three centimetres in diameter, a prominent curving to the left, glans slightly disproportional. In short: nothing spectacular. I can't fault you for that. However, then there's the stamina: just over two minutes, and a rather uncoordinated attempt to return the favour. A disappointing encounter, to say the least."

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Sherlock snapped in irritation. "You're not as anonymous as you _think_ you are. You didn't even try to hide your breathing pattern, your walking pace, or your designer-replica cologne. For God's sake, you didn't even change your shoes! If you're trying to hide, at least do it properly. How thick can you get?"

"You high, mate?" one of the boys snorted, although he seemed taken aback by Sherlock's rant, eyeing his friend with a frown.

"Then there's also the vandalism," Sherlock added. "'_For a good time call Randy'_?" he quoted. "How very original."

"Listen, freak…" Randall started, a blush rising in his cheeks.

"Oh, what was it? 07765 405 933, I believe that's your phone number?" Sherlock smirked. He looked at the gaping young men. "Well, it's been a laugh, but I've got to dash." He walked around the red-faced young man. "Bye."

He heard, rather than saw the movement, and managed to dodge the strike just in time. He turned around to face the huffing young man. His eyebrows rose sardonically.

"There's no need for that," Sherlock said in dismay, not bothering to take his hands out of his pockets. He dodged another clumsy strike aimed at his head.

"_I'll show you a good time_!" Randall choked out, hands fisted hard at his sides. He swung again, and Sherlock merely leaned back to avoid the strike. The young man stumbled, caught off guard, and Sherlock retaliated quickly. His forehead met Randall's in a painful head-butt, the resounding crack echoing through the night air.

The youth crumbled to the ground, clutching his forehead. Sherlock regarded him blankly. His eyes flickered to the group of young men, who had started to advance on them with intent. Some of them reached into their pockets in a way that didn't bode well for Sherlock. Perhaps it was time to leave. He'd better not stick around for a fight he was doomed to lose.

He turned on heel and made to dash off.

Unexpectedly, Randall made a surprisingly fast recovery, considering how obviously drunk he was, and tackled Sherlock to the ground.

The impact knocked the air out of Sherlock's lungs. He gasped, and attempted to dislodge the weight off his back. The young man was frustratingly sturdy, however, and he did not budge, though he huffed with exertion.

"Having fun, Randy?" one of the boys jived. Sherlock looked up, a sinking feeling in his gut at finding himself surrounded.

_Stupid,_ he thought savagely to himself. When would he learn to keep his damn mouth shut? Sherlock's hands were trapped under him, lodged as they were in his pockets, and he cursed his own stupidity for the second time.

"Shut up and help me with this fucking ponce," Randall gritted out, as he shoved Sherlock's face into the mud.

"Sure you don't want us to leave you two arse bandits to it?" one of the boys called, causing the others to burst into hysterics.

"Shut the fuck up, aresholes!" Randall growled. Sherlock managed to free one of his arms, just enough to swing back with his elbow, hitting Randall straight in the nose. It creaked horribly. Blood gushed out of Randall's nostrils and landed in Sherlock's hair.

"_Modda' Fucka_!" Randall screamed, clutching his broken nose. He rolled off Sherlock's back.

Before he could lift himself up, however, a boot hit Sherlock in the jaw, and he gasped in pain. The angle was a bit off, luckily for him, or it would have dislocated the bone. White stars flashed in his vision. He managed to drag himself up by his arms, but then another foot hit him squarely in the stomach, sending him coughing and gasping onto his side.

He grabbed the next foot that came at him, managing to dislodge it from its path with an angry snarl. He clawed at the ground, attempted to lift himself back up. He didn't get a chance to do so before the next strike arrived, this time aimed at his back. It hit him between the shoulder blades.

More kicks followed, leaving Sherlock gasping in pain, covering his face and head with his hands.

He was lifted up by two of the boys, each of them managing a firm grip on one of Sherlock's arms. He attempted to break free by kicking one of them in the shin. The boy cursed colourfully, but didn't release his hold on Sherlock's arm.

"Go on, Randall!" Sherlock heard from somewhere on his left. He couldn't discern who the caller was, as his vision was rather blurry. He shook his head, attempting to clear it.

It was then that he saw Randall advancing on him unsteadily, blood still dripping from his nose and staining his face and shirt. Randall's eyes were fixed on Sherlock's face, something dark and menacing in his gaze.

Randall threw a punch, and Sherlock's head snapped to the side with the force of the strike. Another punch caught him on the mouth. He felt blood dripping from his split lip. He breathed raggedly; his tongue flickered over his teeth to check if any had started to become loose.

Sherlock smiled at Randall through bloody teeth, and then lashed out with his foot, hitting the young man in the knee. Randall howled, but the strike apparently wasn't as severe as he made it sound, since he remained standing.

Randall advanced forward, and then retaliated with a kick of his own. It landed on Sherlock's ankle, making him yell out in pain for the first time. He staggered, and the boy's grip on his arms was the only thing that kept him upright.

Sherlock head slumped as he tried to catch his breath. A hand settled in his hair and pulled him back up. He opened his eyes to see Randall grinning broadly at him, close enough that Sherlock was able to smell his stale breath. Randall waved a switch-blade in front of Sherlock's face before slowly moving it to rest at Sherlock's throat. He pressed hard enough to graze the skin.

Sherlock forced himself to look Randall in the eyes without blinking. He didn't dare open his mouth to speak.

"What's going on over there?" a new voice called out, startling both Sherlock and his assailants. Sherlock thought that it sounded familiar, and quite fortunately, very close by.

Randall's gaze flickered toward the newcomer, and he cursed. He looked back at Sherlock mournfully, but eased the knife from his throat. He spat at Sherlock's feet before shoving the switch-blade back into his pocket, backing away.

"Shit," one of the boys holding Sherlock said, and suddenly Sherlock found himself on the ground. The group took off running into the night, leaving him behind.

"Stop! Police!" the newcomer called out. Sherlock recognised him belatedly as his favourite policeman. He lifted up his head to see a familiar pair of shoes appear in his line of vision.

_My hero_, Sherlock thought in morbid amusement, and rolled onto his back with a pained groan.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

If anyone were to ask, Greg probably would've conceded that he was having a bit of an off-day. Mentally, he preferred to label it as a _clusterfuck_.

If he had any sense left in his head, he'd have gone straight back to the meagre little flat he called home, maybe watch some telly, have a nice soak, and then plunk face-first into his rumpled sheets. Instead, Greg was out frolicking in the woods in the middle of the goddamned night, freezing his goddamned arse off and getting mud all over his _goddamned_ shoes.

He sighed to himself. The days when he could have cheerfully done with only three hours of sleep at night were all but gone. God help him, but he felt old. He would have taken a day off if he could, but the situation at work being what it was, he couldn't afford to. And to be honest, even if he had, he would have felt like a lazy schmuck for it.

Last night, he'd spent three hours on the phone with the ex-wife. She had just broken it off with her boyfriend, a sleazy banker Greg had the good fortune to have punched once. It wasn't one of his best moments, but he'd be lying if he said he had any regrets about it.

The ink on the divorce papers hadn't dried yet, and she was already making noises about getting back together. God help him, but he couldn't go through all that again, even when a small part of him still wanted to say yes. It was hard, and messy, and at least for those reasons he was glad they never had children together.

They'd been eighteen when they married, just a pair of snot-nosed idiots high on life and hormones, and incompatible in every single way. It was a miracle they'd lasted as long as they did.

Greg woke up that morning feeling lonelier than ever, with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth. His headache went away after two Paracetamols, but that was easily the best thing to have happened to him all day.

He'd somehow managed to spill coffee all over his shirt just before the morning conference with the Chief Superintendent. He had to personally report that they had no new leads on the Edwards case. No progress in months, actually. He ended up getting chewed out by his boss, and in front of DI Gregson, no less.

If that wasn't enough, the higher-ups weren't the only ones breathing down his neck. The press was all over the case. Melanie Edwards was the tabloids' sweetheart after all, nicknamed "the modern Cinderella". That had hardly helped the poor girl any. Dead at the age of twenty-five, she never got her happy ever after.

Greg knew, he just _knew_, that the husband, Peter Edwards was the real culprit behind the murder. The man was a bloody millionaire, though, and his type could hire damn good lawyers.

The rich man's attorneys had found ways to cock-block them from the moment the investigation began. Greg didn't like the look of the git from the moment he laid eyes on him, back on that rubbish reality show that had everyone glued to their screens last year. He didn't like him any more inside an interrogation room, either. Unfortunately, gut instincts held no weight in court.

At the end of the day, bone-tired from too much caffeine and barely enough sleep, he made his way to the public toilet at the usual time. There was nothing quite like a mind-shattering blow-job to improve Greg's mood after a long day at work. Unfortunately, the pale blue handkerchief was nowhere to be seen.

Greg did find someone else to pass the time with, but the experience was extremely unsatisfying. For one thing, bizarrely enough, he felt like he was cheating.

Secondly, the encounter itself was just...wrong. The bloke Greg had picked up was nice enough, but he had nothing on the mystery man's impressive skills.

On top of everything, Greg had got spoiled.

As he made his way back home, the familiar sounds of a tussle caught his attention. He approached the scene, dismayed to discover that it wasn't exactly a fair fight. Some poor sod, severely outnumbered, was getting the snot beat out of him. Someone was having a worse day than Greg after all.

"What's going on over there?" Greg yelled, although that much was obvious. All heads turned to him, except for the young man who was slumped forward in his attackers' grips. Greg's eyes caught something glinting menacingly in the hand of the main assailant, and he cursed silently, hand already reaching for his phone to call for backup.

He didn't need to. The lads took off running before Greg could blink, leaving their victim to collapse on the ground.

"Stop! Police!" he called out in vain.

The young man groaned, and rolled over onto his back. He muttered something Greg couldn't quite catch, his mop of dark hair plastered to his face with what Greg hoped was just sweat and mud. He couldn't make out too much in the dark. There was a lamp nearby, but it kept flickering on and off. He knelt down beside the young man, and used his mobile to light his face, checking his injuries. That earned him a death glare, but at least he was able to verify that there wasn't too much blood. His face was beginning to swell up something awful, though.

"Can you hear me, lad?" Greg said, with a well-practised, reassuring smile. It didn't seem to work on the young man, who continued to glower at him with startlingly pale eyes. The young man opened his mouth to reply, but was rendered mute by a coughing fit. He rolled onto his side, clutching his chest until the coughing subsided. Greg instinctively placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Easy," Greg said. "Don't worry, I'm a policeman. Name's Lestrade," he offered. "Can you talk? What's your name?"

To Greg's chagrin, the young man pushed himself up by the elbows. "Sher-" he stopped to steady his breath, coughing again. "Sherlock Holmes," he said eventually, his deep voice hoarse with the effort.

Oddly, that name rang a bell. Greg thought he ought to have remembered a 'Sherlock'. He brushed the thought aside.

"All right, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to call you an ambulance, all right? You're going to be fine." Greg started punching in the number, but before he could make the call, the kid grabbed his arm, effectively knocking the phone from his hand. It skidded a metre away on the ground.

"Don't," Sherlock rasped. "No need. I'm fine." To illustrate his point, he started to pick himself up.

Or at least he tried to, because he would have fallen flat on his face had Greg not caught him. Sherlock groaned, slumping against Greg and smearing him with more than a little blood and dirt. Greg pushed him back to a sitting position.

"Hey, take it easy," Greg said. "Listen to me now, you need to get checked out, make sure nothing's permanently damaged. Do you understand?"

He grimaced when Sherlock leaned over to the side and spat out a gob of blood, which narrowly missed Greg's trousers.

"Bastards cost me a tooth," Sherlock groaned. He wiped his hand across his mouth before adding a resolute, "I don't need an ambulance."

"All right, relax," Greg said. "Do you want to tell me what happened back there, then?"

Sherlock frowned. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Do you know those kids?" Greg said. "I didn't get a good look at them."

"What does it matter?" Sherlock asked. Sighing, he reached into his coat pocket, grimacing when he realised it had got ripped in the struggle. He pulled out a wallet, which he more-or-less shoved at Greg.

"Here," Sherlock said. "If you're so keen."

"What?" Greg asked.

Sherlock levelled Greg with a glare, as if he were the one not making sense.

The flickering light stayed on long enough for Greg to flip through the wallet. It was empty except for some change and an expired driver's license that was very obviously not Sherlock's. Rather, it belonged to someone named 'Randall Waters'.

"They hit you because you pick-pocketed them?" Greg asked, his brow crinkling in confusion.

"No, they hit me because they're drunken simpletons who shouldn't be allowed in public. I pick-pocketed _him_ during," Sherlock said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Somehow, Greg believed him.

Sherlock grabbed onto Greg's shoulder to try and haul himself back on his feet. Greg climbed up with him. The kid was taller than Greg, which made it easier for Greg to snake an around him for support. Sherlock snarled when he found he couldn't put too much pressure on his right foot, and he leaned more keenly against Greg.

Greg could feel his body heat through his clothes, and he shook his head to banish any inappropriate thoughts. Now was decidedly _not_ the time for that.

Slowly, they made their way out of the park.

Greg gestured with the wallet in his hand. "Mr. Holmes, if you want to press charges, you'll need to get yourself checked out first," he said. It wasn't strictly true, but Greg felt it was all right to bend the rules a little bit in this case.

"That's perfectly all right by me, Detective-Inspector," Sherlock said in a way that made it absolutely clear he was going to do no such thing. "And call me Sherlock."

Greg sighed. "All right, Sherlock. Can I get someone for you, then?" he asked. At least the kid was talking sense, mostly. He was obviously anxious to get out of there. Sherlock had already demonstrated he knew how to steal, although in this case Greg didn't blame him. Maybe he was on edge because Greg had mentioned being police.

He hadn't mentioned his rank, though.

"Hang on, I never told you I'm a detective-inspector!" Greg exclaimed.

"It's fairly obvious," Sherlock replied. "Just help me get to the main road. I'll hail a cab." He wobbled suddenly, and Greg had to hoist him closer to make sure they both wouldn't end up sprawled on the ground.

"I can drive you," Greg offered.

"There's no need," Sherlock said.

Greg sighed. "So, do you want to tell me what you were doing out here in the middle of the night?"

"I can ask you the same thing, Detective-Inspector." Sherlock panted, either from the pain or the effort of staying on his feet. Greg wasn't sure.

Greg smiled. He stopped to allow Sherlock to catch his breath. "Fair enough," he said. "The nearest A&E isn't so far away. Come on, the queue isn't that bad."

Sherlock laughed soundlessly, pressing his face against Greg's shoulder in a way that was definitely too intimate. Oh, hells.

"You're okay to continue?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "to get a taxi."

"All right." Greg sighed, not pleased with Sherlock's decision, but powerless to force his hand.

At long last they reached Greg's car. He struggled for a moment, balancing between Sherlock's weight and retrieving his keys. He finally pulled them out of his pocket and unlocked the car doors.

"Where do you live?" Greg asked.

"Someplace a cab can take me. I told you, you don't need to give me a ride," Sherlock mumbled. He shivered against Greg's side, making no effort to untangle himself from Greg's grip.

"Don't be daft," Greg replied. A different thought occurred to him. "Is there anyone at home right now?"

"I live alone," Sherlock said. He pulled himself free, only to sink down beside Greg's car. "Just give me a moment," he mumbled, holding his head in both hands.

Greg rubbed his eyes. "Listen, I can't just leave you like this. Is there someone I can get for you, or some other place I can take you? Won't you think about going to the hospital?" _You stubborn fool_, he added mentally.

Sherlock shook his head.

Another idea came to Greg's mind. It was probably a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea; after all, Greg didn't know the first thing about Sherlock Holmes. But he couldn't just drop him at his flat and call it a night, either.

Greg sighed deeply and opened his mouth to speak.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

There was a lift in Greg's building, but it had been "under repair" since the day he'd moved in. Unfortunately, Greg lived on the sixth floor. The stairway always smelled a little too _ripe _for him, which he usually countered by taking the stairs two at a time.

Not today, though.

He half-carried Sherlock up the stairs, slowly, so as to not aggravate Sherlock's injured ankle. The stairs seemed to stretch on forever, and Greg struggled not to pant with exertion. Sherlock leaned heavily on Greg's arm and shoulder. He was quite heavy for such a skinny kid, and seemed to be growing heavier with every step they took.

Greg's arm was about to cramp, he could tell. They stopped to rest on the fourth floor, despite Sherlock's protests.

He manoeuvred them so that Sherlock could rest on the railing. "Just try not to breathe, all right?" Greg said, and discreetly shook the circulation back into his arm.

One of Greg's neighbours ascended the stairs after them, and they had to flatten themselves against the wall to allow her passage. She eyed them suspiciously as she passed, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. Not that Greg could blame her. He was all too aware of what a frightful sight they made; there was no mistaking the blood and bruises on Sherlock's face, even in the dim stairway light. Hard to laugh it off as a rowdy night gone too far – Sherlock was a little _too_ young to pass off as a drinking buddy.

"Good evening, Mrs. Cowell," Greg greeted her politely.

She shot him a nasty look and retreated into her flat, slamming the door despite the late hour.

"Charming," Greg said in dismay.

He should probably drop by tomorrow and offer some explanation as to why he'd been skulking around the stairway in the middle of the night. The last thing he needed was to get on bad terms with the neighbours. Who knew what curious ears might hear tomorrow? Greg did not need a…_reputation_ for bringing bloodied young men home in the middle of the night

"Affair," Sherlock muttered as they resumed their slow journey up the stairs.

"What?" Greg said.

"Mrs. Cowell is having an affair. Late hour, husband away... haven't you seen her earrings?"

"Her _what_?" Greg exclaimed in bewilderment. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. She's got to be at least sixty years old."

"Sixty-five," Sherlock corrected. "Your point?"

Greg sighed. He wondered how much he would regret his decision later. "Come on," he said tiredly. "Just a few more steps…"

At long last, they reached the door. Greg groped for the light switch as Sherlock disentangled himself from him, hopping straight toward the sofa.

Greg rubbed his aching shoulder, closing the door behind him with his foot. He surveyed the flat in dismay; it looked the same as it did that morning. It was the first time he'd had guests over since the move. It was just a temporary residence, anyway. Still, he wished he'd at least bothered to tidy up a bit.

"Sorry about the mess," he said gruffly, picking up a few dirty plates and moving them to the sink.

Standing in his small kitchen, Greg began his usual homecoming ritual: a little dance of keys, wallet, phone. The keys landed on the counter with a clatter. He felt for his wallet, but decided to keep it exactly where it was. It was only when he reached for his other pocket that he realised what was missing.

"Shit," Greg said under his breath. He glanced back at Sherlock, who didn't seem to pay him any attention.

Sherlock had placed his injured foot on top of the coffee table. He leaned forward to remove his muddied shoe and sock, sighing in relief when his foot was freed from its confines. He then began running his fingers lightly over the swollen skin. Sherlock's skin was incredibly pale where he wasn't bruised black and blue.

"You might need to get that X-rayed," Greg said very reasonably.

"Not broken," Sherlock murmured. He wriggled each toe in turn, big toe to baby toe and back again. Greg was mesmerised by the unusual dexterity. He wondered how he had managed to live for over four decades and never know he had a thing for feet.

Sherlock's foot was certainly very lovely—long and graceful, his toenails clipped and clean. Greg realised he was staring, and hastily closed his mouth. _Inappropriate!_ he reminded himself curtly.

"I should have a first-aid kit here, somewhere." Greg mumbled, mostly as a distraction. He opened the freezer and began inspecting its contents.

"In there?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

"What? No." Greg pulled out a bag of frozen peas and handed it to Sherlock. "Here, use this," he said.

"Oh," Sherlock said, and pressed the peas to his swollen ankle. He was looking around; his sharp, critical gaze roamed about openly.

"Sorry about the mess," Greg said. He had the irrational urge to cover Sherlock's eyes. "I wasn't expecting company."

He began rummaging through a few of the boxes he had stacked near the bedroom door. After several tense minutes, he managed to find the first-aid kit, stuffed inside a cardboard box labelled _misc_ _3_.

"Haven't had the chance to properly unpack yet," Greg mentioned off-handedly.

Sherlock nodded, and lifted the bag of frozen peas to his jaw. "I can see that."

"Yeah, well…" Greg shrugged. He began to sort through the contents of the first-aid kit. "This is just a temporary place till I find something permanent, anyway. I suppose I _have_ been too busy, what with work and, uh, some personal matters."

"Do you mean the divorce?"

"Sorry?" Greg said, alarmed.

Sherlock took the frozen bag down to stare at Greg. "Divorced, or separated. _Clearly_ you live alone," Sherlock said, reaching beneath himself to draw out a discarded sock.

Without giving Greg a chance to compose a reply, Sherlock continued. "There is a tan line around your ring finger, but you haven't been on holiday recently."

He made a vague gesture at the flat. "Married for many years, then. The separation is fairly recent, or you would have found better accommodations by now. Six months, give or take? You removed your wedding ring, which spells divorcee rather than widower."

"Hey, hang on just a minute…" Greg started to say, feeling heat rising in his cheeks.

Sherlock ignored him. "Six months, and you haven't even taken out your personal items? Not even a photograph? So an _ugly_ separation, at that. You've left in a hurry, too, and probably not for the first time. This time is different, though, isn't it?"

When Greg didn't respond, Sherlock pointed to the stack of mail on the coffee table. "You've changed your mailing address." He looked at Greg pointedly, and then sighed at his silent, baffled look.

"You had it changed to _this_ address almost immediately, even though you consider it a temporary residence. Ergo, you don't expect to go back." Sherlock gave a little grimace of discomfort, and promptly returned the frozen bag of peas to his aching jaw.

Greg thought of a rather scathing reply, but the only thing that left his mouth was a flat "_what_?"

He shook his head to gain some semblance of composure, and leant forward to pull the stack of letters from underneath Sherlock's foot. Sherlock hissed a little, but Greg ignored him. He flipped through his letters, and saw that it was true; the ones he'd picked up from his old home were dated at least six months back, the rest were sent to his current address.

Also, he thought, he ought to phone his bank; something fishy was definitely going on with his account statements.

Sherlock said, as a by-the-way, "I suppose that the affair was the last clincher."

"Now, how the hell did you-" Greg began to say.

"Know about the affair?" Sherlock finished with a smirk. "_You_ told me."

"Remember Mrs. Cowell, the adulteress? Your reaction was spot on. _Textbook_. Oh, people tell you all sorts of things with their body language."

He looked at Greg critically. "You should know this sort of thing, surely? You _are_ a policeman… do they not teach you this?"

"Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?" Greg wondered aloud.

Sherlock blinked. "Does what?"

"Do people often punch you?"

Sherlock ducked his head, having at least the decency to look embarrassed. "They usually miss," he admitted.

Greg snorted. "Right."

He sat down on the coffee table before Sherlock, setting the first aid-kit beside him. Gently, he lifted Sherlock's chin, tilting his head a bit to better inspect the damage. Sherlock shivered when Greg touched him, but didn't pull back.

"You'll need to wash up first, I think," Greg said. There was a nasty cut above Sherlock's eyebrow. It had stopped bleeding for the most part, but Sherlock's face was caked with a layer of dried blood and dirt. Greg dropped his hand. Some of the mess clung to his fingers, and he rubbed them over his trousers distractedly.

"The bathroom is just over there," he said, jerking his head.

Sherlock nodded, dropping his gaze. Greg became belatedly aware of how close he had been sitting, and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Sherlock started to peel off his coat and shirt, slowly, wincing as he did so. His arms and chest were also covered in multi-coloured bruises.

Greg clenched his jaw. The stolen wallet was still in his jacket pocket. He'd definitely need to do something about this 'Randall Waters' character.

Greg helped Sherlock to the small tub. Sherlock had opted to stay in his underpants. He sat on the edge of the tub while Greg washed the grit off his face and hair. Once he was clean, Greg handed him a towel, and left to fetch some clean clothes.

He stopped to collect Sherlock's shirt and trousers, with the intention of tossing them into the wash while he was at it. The coat, he noted, was a lost cause. As were Sherlock's shoes. Greg could barely even make out their colour under all the mud, but for some reason, they left him with an odd twinge of _déjà vu_. He shook his head, and left them beside the sofa.

Unsurprisingly, Greg's already oversized t-shirt hung on Sherlock's thin frame. The look didn't quite suit him. Greg had to choke back a snigger.

He helped Sherlock limp back to the sofa, and then sat in front of him again. He frowned when he saw that the cut above Sherlock's eyebrow had reopened.

"That might need stitches," Greg said.

"Just stick a plaster on it, it should be fine," Sherlock muttered, blinking heavily.

"Don't fall asleep on me," Greg warned.

"I'm not concussed," Sherlock said. He stifled a yawn behind his fist. "Just a bit tired."

Greg shook his head. He dabbed at Sherlock's abrasions with antiseptic, and applied bandages where they were needed.

Now that he was clean, Greg could see that Sherlock didn't seem too badly injured. Not on the surface, at any rate. While Greg had some basic first-aid training, he was no doctor, and worried about the possibilities of internal injuries.

"How do you feel?" Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've had better days, I suppose."

"Hmm." Greg frowned as he worked. He titled Sherlock's head a little to the side, gently cleaning the injury above his eye.

"Worse, too," Sherlock added, not quite smiling.

"Yeah, you're not alone, there," Greg replied, returning Sherlock's almost-smile.

The peas had defrosted by the time Greg finished. He stood back up, his back cracking as he stretched.

"I need to step out for a few minutes," Greg said, rubbing his face. "Do you think you'll be okay on your own for a bit?" He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone in the flat. He'd been so cooperative while Greg treated him, and somehow, Greg didn't think it was his normal disposition.

Nonetheless, there was the small matter of Greg's phone. As part of his job, he had to keep it on him at all times in case of an emergency. Why hadn't he ever set up a land-line?

Sherlock nodded, and reached for his coat. Silently, he handed Greg his own phone.

Greg took it, confused. "What's this for?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was simple. "You might find your phone more easily if you'd ring it, _detective,_" Sherlock said slowly.

"You knew I forgot it all along, didn't you?" Greg exclaimed. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You didn't ask."

Greg snorted. "Unbelievable," he grumbled. He pocketed Sherlock's phone. "Just try not to get into anymore trouble while I'm gone, all right?"

"Yes, _Mum_," Sherlock said.

Greg glowered at him in reply. He only just made it out the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"Lestrade," Sherlock called out. He seemed uncomfortable when Greg turned back to face him, fidgeting in his seat.

"You didn't have to. Help, I mean," Sherlock said awkwardly. "So… thank you."

Greg sighed. "Just _don't move_ until I get back, all right?" he said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."


	5. Chapter 5

Beta: The lovely parfait_cell, who makes me make sense.

Chapter Five:

Sherlock flipped another page in his magazine. His earlier fascination with the tabloid was quickly evaporating, replaced with the usual tedium. He sighed, tossing the magazine on top of the coffee table. He rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to ward off his fatigue, and then slid down until he was lying flat on his back across the sofa, injured foot propped on the armrest. Lestrade was taking _forever_.

Sherlock had already given in to boredom. He'd hobbled through the tiny flat in search of entertainment earlier, but at that point he'd already exhausted all possible points of interest. Well, almost. He hadn't checked Lestrade's underwear drawer, but Sherlock didn't think he was the sort of man to keep secrets among his under-things. Besides, Sherlock had already been inside his pants, figuratively speaking.

He'd been contemplating whether he should bring up that little tidbit. _By the way, Lestrade, your cock is delicious, _he imagined himself saying. He snorted with laughter at that, ignoring the sharp pain that flared in his ribs. It was a tempting idea, if only for the look on Lestrade's face. He just wasn't sure if it was tempting enough.

Sherlock had always enjoyed Lestrade's company. He was delighted to discover that didn't change when blow-jobs weren't on the menu. Yes, he was showing off earlier, because it felt nice to be noticed for something beside his sexual talents. It felt nice to be noticed by Lestrade, period. He was a good audience. But how would he react when he discovered the truth about Sherlock?

Data. Sherlock needed more data. Sex was a complication. It was the reason Sherlock had chosen anonymity in the first place. He needed to know exactly how Lestrade would react before he would come clean, or he'd risk losing his company completely. It wasn't a pleasant prospect. Perhaps it would be better for Lestrade to deduce Sherlock's identity on his own…with Sherlock pointing him in the right direction, of course.

Fast-approaching footsteps caught his attention. Rather hurried, _squishy _footsteps. Sherlock arched his neck for a better look at the front door. He wasn't disappointed to see the soaking wet figure of Greg Lestrade. It wasn't a bad look on him, if one were to ignore the put–upon expression.

Sherlock couldn't disguise his amusement. "If you're in the market for a brolly," he offered, "I know a man."

Lestrade turned to hang his coat and jacket by the door. He grumbled a few choice words in retaliation. Sherlock wasn't exactly listening. He was a bit distracted by the white shirt Lestrade was wearing, which was now plastered against his body in entirely too-fetching ways. It occurred to Sherlock that he would be very happy to see more of Lestrade besides his (admittedly fantastic) cock. Maybe he really _was_ concussed after all.

He wasn't so distracted however, that he'd miss the pale blue something that peeked out of Lestrade's coat pocket. Sherlock's handkerchief, the one he'd lost during the fight. He only noticed that after they'd already left the park's premises, and now it looked like Lestrade had found it. Was it the reason he'd been delayed? Did he figure out it was Sherlock's all along?

Sherlock eyed Lestrade curiously, searching for signs of understanding. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, brandishing his phone in Sherlock's direction. "I got it. Were you all right here by yourself?" He turned to his coat, pulling Sherlock's own phone from its pocket, and tucking the handkerchief out of sight.

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position slowly, wincing. The pain in his ribs flared up whenever his chest expanded. _Only shallow breaths for a while_, he reminded himself. He accepted the phone when it was handed back to him, watching Lestrade keenly. "You took your time."

"I know, I'm sorry. I, uh—" Lestrade trailed off when he caught sight of the tabloid on the table, and the pile of documents that lay underneath it. "Is that…?" he exclaimed, picking up the pile in one swift move. "What the hell were you doing?" He straightened quickly, splattering Sherlock with rainwater. His mouth was set in a thin, furious line.

Sherlock frowned, or tried to. The plaster above his eyebrow made it too difficult. "Reading. Is that against the law, Inspector?"

Lestrade's expression would have been comical if it weren't for the anger he was radiating. "Don't play stupid. You had no right to go through my property. And this," he gestured with the folder, "is classified information. I don't want to see any of it in tomorrow's papers, do you understand?"

Confused, Sherlock asked, "Why would I go to the press?"

Lestrade took a step back, searching the paper folder for any missing documents or photographs. "Or blog it, or twat about it. I don't care. I don't want to see it."

"Tweet_,_" Sherlock corrected helpfully.

"Shut up." Lestrade snapped the folder shut. "I asked you a question. What the hell were you doing?"

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, which he immediately regretted. Masking his wince, he replied, "I was bored."

"You're _not_ serious," Lestrade said in apparent disbelief. He shook his finger in Sherlock's face, as though Sherlock was an unruly child. "I should throw you in the cells right now, you nosy little bastard."

"What for?" Irritably, Sherlock pushed Lestrade's hand away from his face. "You've left it in an unlocked cabinet."

Lestrade was incredulous. "No, I didn't."

"Might as well have been," Sherlock sniffed. "It's a terrible lock." He flung himself back into a lying position, ignoring the ache, and curled onto his side. He was already taking back everything he'd thought about Lestrade earlier. The man was a git.

"We're not done yet!" Lestrade snapped. He exhaled loudly. Then he said, "I know who you are."

That caught Sherlock's attention. He turned back to face Lestrade, looking at him expectantly. "Oh?"

"I figured it out." Lestrade started to pace, unconcerned about the wet puddles he was leaving on the floor. Sherlock had to choke down a smile at the little squelching noises his shoes made. "You've been sending tips to my division all year," Lestrade continued. "I knew your name sounded familiar."

"Oh," Sherlock said. He was a little surprised at the twinge of disappointment he felt. "I mean, yes. I thought you might appreciate the help?" Sherlock said uncertainly. He sat up again, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Most of us think you're a nutter, to be honest," Lestrade said gruffly. "We get our fair share of those, believe me, but you've been the most persistent."

Sherlock pouted. "It's not my fault you lot need all the help you can get."

Lestrade stopped pacing. "And what glaring clue have we missed this time, genius?" He gestured with the folder in his hand. "Enlighten me."

"Wedding rings!" Sherlock exclaimed, flexing his fingers for emphasise. At Lestrade's blank expression, he exclaimed, "Oh, for the love of God!" Ignoring the pain, he reached forward suddenly, snatching the folder from Lestrade's hand. He held it between his back and the sofa as Lestrade tried to take it back from him. "I can spell it out for you if you want."

Lestrade glared down at him for a moment. "Fine," he grumbled. "Let's hear it."

Sherlock smiled brightly at that. He flipped through the folder until he found what he was looking for: a photograph of the victim, Mrs. Melanie Edwards.

The photo was taken mere minutes before her abduction. He laid it on the table. He then pulled a second photograph from the folder, this one far less pleasant. The murder victim stared lifelessly from the crime scene photo. Her face was nearly unrecognisable; the abuse she had taken made Sherlock's injuries seem like a couple of skinned knees in comparison. She was completely naked, stripped of all her clothes and jewellery.

"Let's review, shall we?" Sherlock pointed at the first photograph. "According to the initial report, the victim was abducted from the balcony of her own home. Security footage showed two masked men dragging her away, with none of her guests the wiser, is that correct?"

Lestrade seemed at unease, but jerked his head in reply to Sherlock's question.

Sherlock then pointed at the second photograph. "She'd been found naked in a skip two days later. Stripped of any personal affects and showing signs of physical abuse. Can you tell me what items she'd been carrying on her the last time anyone had seen her alive? Her jewellery, to be precise?"

Lestrade didn't miss a beat before replying, "Diamond hoop earrings, a matching bracelet, and her wedding ring."

"A custom-made, _engraved_ wedding ring. '_Eternally yours, Pete_', that's what the inner inscription says, correct?" Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer. Every item the victim had been carrying was unique, custom-made and described down to the last detail. If any of it was to turn up somewhere, the police knew it could lead them to the killer.

"Yes," Lestrade answered. "But I don't see how-"

"You think it's the husband," Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade sighed. "He's a suspect with a clear motive. She filed for a divorce, and would've taken half of his money in the settlement," he said with a grimace. "He is also a gigantic, arrogant sleaze who's been using the case as a PR stunt, but that's it. He has a clear-cut alibi, and we can't prove his involvement. Not for lack of trying, believe me. I've had it up to _here_ with lawyers," Lestrade grumbled.

"So you _do_ think it's the husband," Sherlock confirmed, amused.

Lestrade shrugged. "As does Mrs. Cowell downstairs. What's your point?"

"Oh, yes." Sherlock picked up the tabloid from the coffee table, where it remained next to the assorted medical supplies from earlier. He began flipping through the pages, disregarding Lestrade's impatient groan. "Famous, was she?" Sherlock asked. "They do natter on and on about her. Melanie Edwards, I mean, not Mrs. Cowell."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade warned. "I don't have time for games."

Sherlock ignored him. "The husband, too. There's an interview here," he continued, lifting the tabloid for emphasis. "He does come across as a bit of a wanker. Doesn't speak too kindly about the way the Yard's been handling the case. Does that bother you? You've read this article many times, I can tell. Oh, he refers to you by name."

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked, but didn't move to take the tabloid from Sherlock.

Sherlock turned the magazine around so that Lestrade could take a look at the cover photo. Peter Edwards, the recent widower, stared sombrely at the camera. He held a framed photograph of his late wife in his hands.

"You might have noticed that he hadn't taken his wedding ring off. Rather sweet, considering…well, if you can trust the commentary, they've had their share of marital problems. One thing strikes me as odd, though…"

Sherlock turned the magazine around to look at the photo again, a mock frown on his face. He flipped another page through the magazine, and then presented it to Lestrade. "His ring. It seems to have shrunk a bit, hasn't it?"

"What?" Lestrade blurted out, eyebrows raised. He took the magazine from Sherlock, studying the photos intently. There was another photograph attached to the article, one taken of the couple on their wedding day. Their rings were nearly identical, save for the groom's having been slightly more masculine, covering his finger almost up to his knuckle. The ring Mr. Edwards wore in the interview photograph was noticeably smaller.

"Did you ever notice that Mr. Edwards has _very_ slender hands for a man?" Sherlock asked. "I wonder if he's the sort who'd get off on flaunting a piece of evidence under the police's nose. I wonder," Sherlock said with a smirk, "what you'll find if you check the ring's inscription?"

"Son of a bitch," Lestrade growled, staring darkly at the magazine in his hands. He looked up at Sherlock, frowning deeply. "I…" he started to say. He held Sherlock's gaze intently before finally nodding. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make a few phone calls."

"You're welcome," Sherlock called as he watched Lestrade disappear inside the bedroom. He felt entirely too pleased with himself.

Soon, though, the elation at having solved a real murder case was ebbing. He was still exhausted. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the way his ribs screamed at the abuse. He began to doze off, only to be awoken with a start when Lestrade laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock clutched at the blanket he didn't remember having. "What?" he said with a voice thick with sleep, eyes closed.

"Just checking to make sure you're still alive," Lestrade said with a chuckle. "I thought I told you not to fall asleep?"

"And I thought I told you that my head is fine."

He must have moved without realising it, because he'd been mumbling the words directly against Lestrade's mouth. They both froze, neither kissing nor pulling away. Sherlock could feel Lestrade's rapid pulse in his lips.

Lestrade was the one to break the spell. He cupped Sherlock's face gently before pulling away. "I don't think that's a good idea," Lestrade said. His hand lingered on Sherlock's cheek a moment too long.

Sherlock turned to face the back of the sofa. He could feel a growing flush in his cheeks. Mentally, he cursed himself.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Probably not."


End file.
